


Magnet

by Iron



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Mentions of Death, Potential Infantilization of Neurodivergent Characters, Pre-War/No War AU, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:20:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23761462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iron/pseuds/Iron
Summary: Jazz is Prowl’s new handler in the Praxan Specialist Unit. He learns what Prowl needs.—For Prowl Week Day #2 - “High”
Relationships: Jazz&Prowl
Comments: 15
Kudos: 70
Collections: Prowl Week





	Magnet

There really were few ways for a mech on the force to decompress; weekly drug tests and the disallowance of any mind-altering substances, even those that had been otherwise legalized, left the enforcers of Praxus few choices in their off-hours for working through the slag they came helm to helm with every day. 

Most mechs Prowl knew chose to use exercise to work through things. Or they do what the department actually wanted them to and went to the precinct’s psychologists. They went to kink clubs, or they talked to friends, or they meditated. 

Prowl does none of that. He collects magnets instead. 

— 

Jazz moved from. Polyhex to Praxus six vorns ago; he changed his paint job to the Praxi-standard black and white, adopted a visor to hide his monocular vision, filed down his claws and fangs, and went about like he was like every other Praxi sparked to the city proper. 

He moved around a lot, growing up. He’s good at assimilating. 

He’s assigned to the Special Officers Unit in Praxus; behind his back, the other officers call it the _Sparkling-Sitting Unit_ , like he can’t hear everything they’re saying. 

Officially, the mechs in the Special Officers Unit possess particular Sigma or specialized upgrades that allow them to perform exemplary police work. Unofficially, they have to be separated from the bulk of the force due to interpersonal issues arising from these Sigma mechs, with assigned handlers and guidelines for their interactions with crime scenes and other mechs. 

Jazz already knows of some of the mechs involved: sweet Glitch, pulled from Iacon’s Enforcers after it became clear that they didn’t know how to handle his Sigma, who could whisper a perp into a confession; chittering, chattering Bluestreak, a sniper who never missed and had panic attacks if left alone or isolated; Smokescreen, a mech with a gambling addiction and a particular skill in ferreting out whatever contacts they might need for any particular case; Barricade, whose investigative skill was on par with some telepathic ability, and whose anger issues and ideas of vigilante justice had gotten him trouble more than once; and, of course, Prowl, the mech he’d been assigned to assist. 

A prodigious strategist, a mech whose ability to plan for the long-term and perfectly predict the actions and responses of other mechs were unrivaled, a monster in black and white who could, to all appearances, read your mind, and whose cold countenance sent lesser mechs running. Prowl was the last mech any of the handlers in the SPU wanted to deal with. 

So they gave him over to the youngest handler. Jazz meets him on his second day in the unit, the sergeant leading him into the bullpen with a hand on his shoulder fairing. He’d been given the file the first day and told to memorize it. Psych profile, current treatments on record, known issues, reported behavioral incidents. It took him the entire night to get through. 

The mech presented to him is nothing like the one Jazz expected; his expression is cool, plating polished to a high shine, backstrut straight as he holds one hand out for Jazz to shake. His doorwings are at a perfectly polite 75-degree angle, flared to exactly three-fourths of their capable width. Rigid, yes, but nothing else. He seems like a normal, if stuffy, mech. The fact that he apparently throws tantrums terrible enough to trash an entire office seems impossible. 

“Prowl.” 

“Jazz. I’m here to -“ 

“I know why you’re here, ridiculous as it may be. You can go sit in the corner with the other ones. I will call you when you’re needed.” He drops Jazz’s hand and turns away, stepping back towards what is clearly his desk. 

Jazz exchanges a look with the sergeant. who only shrugs. “And it might not be in the file, but keep him away from magnets.” 

“Why?” 

“Just make sure you don’t ever find out.” 

So he goes to sit with the other mechs meant to keep the SPU mechs on an even keel, and watches the officers type away on datapads or fill out forms. 

“This gig feels too easy,” Jazz mutters at them. “I mean, all of these mechs need one of us?” 

“We used to have one for every three, but they started putting them out on simultaneous missions and we lost one, when their handler was busy on another mission. Now it’s one for every mech, even if we spend half the day doing nothing but filling out another team’s datawork.” 

He doesn’t trust it, but... Well, he guesses they’d know best. 

The room’s quiet, for most of the day. Mechs looking for cases to assign their SPU officers to, or filling out reports, or doing the half dozen other assignments meant to keep the specialized unit ready for immediate deployment where necessary. It’s quiet, mostly. Feels like any other unit would, except that when a call comes in for an officer’s help it comes with a name and a function in-tact. Jazz barely talks to Prowl that night, except to say goodbye when the mech leaves. 

It’s like that for a good few weeks: Jazz comes in. Jazz watches Prowl. Sometimes the mechs in the unit come or go, accompanied by their handlers. Sometimes they come in looking worse for wear, or their handlers do, and the only explanation Jazz ever gets is “a bad mission”. He assumes that’ll change when they get called out for something specific, rather than Prowl continuing to work on strategies for police deployment and areas of concentration for police efforts and... whatever else he’s doing. Jazz mostly sees datapads go in, and datapads go back out, and little else. Prowl is a glorified data pusher. Jazz doesn’t even know why he’s needed. 

Not until the first full-unit assignment takes place, and he learns what Prowl can _really_ do, and what that does to him. 

— 

Jazz had been peripherally aware of Praxus’s criminal underground before coming into the PSU, and he received a crash course on it when entered into the unit; the primary task of the PSU was to deal with the kinds of cases that boggled other mechs, and there were no greater criminal masterminds than those who run crimes in Praxus. 

The city had fallen into chaos with the changing of the Primes about two decavorns ago, and it had resolidified into a dozen different factions spread across the city in the aftermath. It had largely been stable, the last five vorns, with each little faction specializing in different criminal enterprises and holding ground through a web of complex deals, bondings, and necessary alliances that meant that, when one faction fell, another struggled to fill the hole. 

And when one faction falls, the wars that break out attempting to take the leftover territory can be worse than the damage they were causing before. 

That's why they use the PSU to make sure that when they take down one of the factions, they take enough territory to make the loss of lives _worth_ it. It’s also how Jazz ends up in the field with Prowl, watching him direct the police raid on a dozen different locations with twice that many teams involved. It’s awe-inspiring. It’s terrifying. 

It’s kind of hot. 

He’s not actually sure why he’s there. Prowl doesn’t need him; no one seems to. He’s mostly just left standing around and watching the mech work, bent over a console with a dozen different screens from frame cameras on it. Outside the quiet tent that Prowl had been ensconced in, the city’s finest hurry about to make sure that once the criminal element has been rooted out it won’t be able to come back. 

They’re there for hours. Jazz spends part of it working, but most of it watching the dizzying array of videos over Prowl’s shoulder, the quickly-changing feeds moving so quickly that it’s almost dizzying. He doesn’t know how Prowl manages to keep track of it all. 

And the mech never stops. Other mechs switch out shifts - and Jazz knows that because he pokes his helm out for fuel and some damn sunlight, and the faces in the grounding area change out every few hours like clockwork - but Prowl doesn’t even stop for fuel until Jazz threatens to shut down the generator running his console. And even then, he doesn’t look away from the console while he takes his cube. Doesn’t even pause giving direction to the mechs on the other side of the line. 

That kind of dedication, that kind of concentration... 

So Jazz gets it, kind of, why Prowl needs a handler. Mech would end up collapsed over his work station if left alone like this. Maybe not the rest of the time, except Jazz has never seen him without it, so who knows? 

So he gets it, and when the op’s over he makes sure that Prowl heads home instead of to the station, and he doesn’t think much else of it. 

Not until he gets into the station in the morning expecting Prowl to be there, and he’s greeted by an empty desk instead. Mech’s _never_ less than the first one in - even when he’s the last to go, dawn poking its helm over the horizon, he’s still the first one in. He has _mandated rest days_ , for frag’s sake. 

For a minute, Jazz brushes it off. Things that maybe the mech’s taken the day off, after pushing his helm so hard the day before. 

Then he tells himself he’s stupid and pulls the mech’s address from the personnel files. 

— 

He has to break into the mech’s apartment. 

“Breaking in” mostly means jimmying the lock until it gives - he suspects Prowl doesn’t spend enough time in the apartment to put much thought into security - and finds an almost painfully messy apartment. 

It’s like the mech’s never given two thoughts to cleaning up after himself. The floor is covered in datapads, broken and dark and in perfect operation, crumbled balls of flimsy, crystal pieces fallen from larger pots. Any available surface has been crowded out by dirty cubes and more pots and even more datapads, and the entire mess smells like sour fuel and curdled oil. 

He should get the mech a damn maid, or something. Who lives like this? 

Prowl, apparently; the mech’s sitting by the window of his sitting room, just past the narrow entry hallways, sunk into a huge chair almost bursting with padding. There are things on the table in front of him. Toys? Miniatures? 

He can’t tell. He inches forwards, wary of waking Prowl. It takes him getting far too close for him to realize that, no, Prowl isn’t asleep - his optics are online, just dim, and he’s staring sightlessly into the ceiling. 

And there are magnets attached to the sides of his helm. 

Not strong ones, but the kind you’d give sparklings as toys, or get for free from some business as a promotion. These seem to be the latter - one from a cafe, another from what he thinks might be for a maid service (go figure), a third proclaiming that a detailing service would get your frame “Squeaky Clean!” 

Jazz sighs. _Keep him away from magnets_ indeed, huh. 

“Hey,” he whispers, kneeling next to the chair. “Hey.” 

Those dim optics flicker, get a little brighter. The fans in the mech’s helm kick on, which is never a good sign in anyone. His processor must not be recovered from overclocking itself the day before. “Mm?” 

“Hey, Prowler, you wanna tell me why you’re sitting here like this?” _And why you have magnets stuck to your helm_? This wouldn’t do much to any mech Jazz knows. Shouldn’t be medically possible for just magnets to do a mech in, but Prowl gets tested just like the rest of them. 

The mech’s mouth moves, then goes slack. Another flicker of his optics, fans kicking into higher gear, and he manages to mumble in Jazz’s direction. “Needed. Quiet.” 

Quiet from what? Jazz tries to think of what he knows of Prowl’s specialized systems. Capable of tracking eight hundred individual moving objects. Capable of running statistical models using hundreds of data points, and rerunning them until he could almost perfectly model the future actions of an entire field. Enough processing power in his auxiliary computer to put most of Iacon’s hoity-toity think tanks to shame. Collectively. 

Brain like that, yeah, he can see it getting busy. Especially after something like yesterday. It wasn’t a clean op, and sending mechs to their deaths when you knew they were gonna kick it, or had a chance to... 

Jazz lays his hand over Prowl’s. “How long you been sitting here, huh?” 

“Mmhm.” A slow, liquid roll of Prowl’s shoulders. He doesn’t have a clue. 

“You’re late to work, mech.” Jazz pets the scuffed joints of his fingers. “Look, you probably need fuel, need some real sleep, and I need to call in that you’re taking the day off to recover. Okay? So I’m gonna get you a cube, we’re gonna take those magnets off, and then we’re gonna talk about how we can make this _safe_ for you, okay? Can’t have you forgetting to fuel or sleep or none of that.” 

He doubts Prowl hears a word he says, but having a plan makes Jazz feel a bit better. A little less bad about just leaving him after yesterday’s op, a little more assured it won’t happen again. 

So he orders in to a restaurant and does a bit of tidying in the meantime, rinsing out old cubes and putting the stray bits of crystal in a clean one, stacking up all the datapads on the floor and making a neat little pile of the flimsy. He doesn’t want to mess with Prowl’s stuff too bad, but getting the floor clean’s important. Prowl doesn’t move the entire time, just lays there and stares at the ceiling. 

When the fuel arrives he perches on the table next to Prowl and unpacks the little bag it came in. Once it’s out and filling the air with the dull, plain smell of Prowl’s preferred mix (no additives, mid-grade, oil on the rim) he turns to convincing Prowl into letting him pull the magnets off. 

“Time to eat, mech, and if you wanna eat you gotta get right.” 

A slurred mumble. 

“I gotta take the magnets off. Am I good to go ahead?” 

Another mumble, but one that’s clearly a negative. 

“You hungry?” 

An affirmative sound. 

“Alright, then how about... one magnet. Just enough so you can move?” 

A pause. A short, sleepy almost-nod. Jazz takes it as good enough, leaning forward and peeling the largest of the magnets off. 

The reaction is nearly immediate: Prowl’s optics reboot and his frame stiffens, field filling with pain. Jazz makes soft shushing sounds as the mech reaches for the cube on the table. “Turn off your noise generator,” Prowl hisses. 

“What?” 

“They don’t give me handlers that make _noise_. Turn off whatever’s mimicking engine noises. Now.” 

So Jazz cuts the system that pipes engine noises through the speakers dotted in his frame - because Prowl was, of course, right, though that particular mod was from before his time in the police. “Better?” 

“Much.” 

“You want to tell me why you have magnets attached to your helm?” 

Prowl scowls at him. “It cuts the connection between my main and auxiliary computers.” 

“And you need that?” 

“It’s... loud.” 

“It turned you into a lump.” 

“They connected my primary systems to the auxiliary computer when they attempted to ease the overload on my main processor. In short, cut the connection and I can’t think.” 

“And I suspect you need that sort of shut off pretty often, huh?” 

“... only after days like yesterday.” 

Jazz nods. “Drink. We’re gonna talk about doing this slag _safely_ from now on.” 

“You’re... not going to turn me in? Or stop me?” 

“Mech, if you _need_ it, why would I? Magnets aren’t gonna cause permanent damage, you obviously _can_ manage to take care of yourself while you’re like this since you’ve done it before, and... well, I know that this sort of slag can get a mech down.” Jazz shrugs. “Fuel. Then you’re gonna tell me _everything_ about the magnets, and we’re gonna make sure I can take care of you like I’m supposed to. Good?” 

“... yes. We’re... good.” 

“Good.” 

Jazz pats his knee. “Then fuel, mech, and we’ll figure out what you need.” 

And Jazz will do what he was supposed to from the start, and make sure Prowl’s okay.


End file.
